Their language disappeared a year or so
after the landscape: so what can they do now
but point? At parts of bodies, at what
they want to eat, at instrument panels, at
new highways and other areas of intense
reconstruction, at our own children smiling
into cameras, at the lettering on cannisters,
at streaks of green and purple, at the moon,
at moments that may still suggest such concepts
as “Civilization” or “Justice” or “Terror,”
and at ourselves, those still alive, who stand
before what might have been, a year ago, a door.
The Prisoners of War
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